


Be With Me

by The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff



Series: Carry On Countdown 2019 [16]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Carry On Countdown (Simon Snow), Carry On Countdown 2019, Communication, DEC 23 - Firsts, First Time, Healing, Intimacy, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, References to Depression, Simon & Baz heal together, Simon Snow Gets His Magic Back, Therapy, Vulnerability, also some bad jokes because why not, because they match, but that doesn't mean we should run away from it!, difficult conversations that need to be had damn it, even if we want to, gradually, it's a terrifying thing it is it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21898165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff/pseuds/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff
Summary: Being in love isn't easy—sometimes it's downright terrifying. But sometimes it's worth it to open your heart. Some people are worth fighting for.***I'm trying to think about thegoodstuff, like how much I love Baz. (I love himsomuch…)How much he loves me.He says so. And he keeps saying so, and the farther away we get from everything—from the Mage, and the Humdrum, and America—the more I believe it.The more Ifeelit.***First chapter rated T. New chapters coming August 2020 💜
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Carry On Countdown 2019 [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557748
Comments: 55
Kudos: 266
Collections: Carry On Big Bang 2020, Carry On Countdown 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> first chapter written for the Carry On Countdown - Firsts
> 
> ...So am I really going to write another first time fic that'll turn canon divergent once the next book comes out? Yes. Yes I am.

**SIMON**

_Aeroplanes don’t stop being aeroplanes when they’re on the ground._

But I’m not on the ground anymore, am I?

Or maybe I am. I’m on the ground even when I’m thirty-five thousand feet above the Atlantic.

Baz and I haven’t spoken since the beach. Not anything meaningful, at least.

I should be grateful. That’s twice now Penelope’s stopped me from ending things with him, even if she didn’t know that’s what she was doing.

It doesn’t make it any less painful.

It felt like I lost him, in America, like we were holding on by a thread. And then I almost _did_ lose him, there at the end. To those vampires. To all that fire.

That’s twice now I’ve saved Baz from an open flame. Twice I’ve nearly lost him to an inferno.

He told me once that I was the sun. And isn’t that all the sun _is_ ? A mass of flames? I’ve got to save him, one more time. I’ve got to save him from _myself_.

I just…

I’m trying not to think about it on this flight. I’m trying not to think about it at all before we get home, because I don’t want to cry in front of him. I—

Baz is nudging me with his elbow. Sliding a napkin and a pen over to me on top of the tray table in front of me.

I tilt my plastic cup of leftover ice and watch the last bit of Coke trickle along the bottom. Then I look at the open napkin.

_We need to talk._

I remember Baz screaming at me, that first night we kissed. About his mother. “ _She loved what I was_!”

That’s me now. He loved what I _was..._

Maybe he’s finally figured that out. 

  
  


**BAZ**

Simon needs to know. 

He needs to know that I love him. He needs to know how _much,_ and he needs to know it before we face whatever it is we’re heading into when we get back home. 

He’s already spoiling for a fight. He’s been fidgeting in the seat next to me this entire bloody flight. And the silence…

Fuck, the silence has me feeling like it’s…

No. We can’t keep going on like _this._ I’ve been too afraid to talk to him, too afraid of how he’d answer any of my questions, and it’s just made everything worse. If it’s a choice between not going on at all and actually telling him what he needs to hear, then I’ll bloody well take the risk. 

When Simon sets the napkin and pen back on my tray table, there’s just a crooked black question mark. 

Of _course_ he’s going to make this difficult. I don’t think I ever expected anything less. It’s not like he’s suddenly bereft of being a stubborn arse. 

I really don’t want to have this conversation via airline napkin—not all of it, anyway—but some things just need to be said. Or written, I suppose. 

So I start writing.

 _I meant what I said at the beach. I don’t_ _want _ _to be without you, Simon. And there’s a lot more I have to say to you. I’m hoping you’ll let me._

  
  


**SIMON**

“I just.” _Fuck,_ I’m crying, and Baz is looking at me, and I don’t want him to _see_ me just now, but also I _do,_ but _fuck_ I wish he’d stop looking at me like _that._

We’re at the airport, now. On the ground. It’s the middle of the night, and Penelope and Shepard and Agatha are off with our luggage, looking up train schedules. Baz and I are at a 24-hour café—most of the airport cafés aren’t even open yet—sort of hidden away in a corner. I had to tell Penny that Baz and I needed a few minutes. We don’t have secrets, Penny and me, except this one. I’ve never told her how completely I’ve fucked my relationship with Baz.

Though he’s just told me I haven’t. 

I push the tears away with the heel of my hand. “I just—” I sound like a little kid, the way my voice keeps breaking. Fucking _hell_ —

“Simon…” Baz says. It’s soft, and he’s still got that look on his face. He moves one hand—I think maybe he’s reaching for _me_ —but then he clenches a fist and sets it on his thigh instead. Damn it, _I’m_ the reason he doesn’t touch me anymore. I know he’s afraid to, afraid of how I might react.

I don’t blame him. It’s my own fault, how everything’s gone to shit between us. ( _Has_ it gone to shit between us? I mean, it’s definitely not _good,_ and that’s not his bloody _fault._ It’s _mine._ ) 

“You.” _Fuck._ I really wish we weren’t in bloody public, even if it _is_ deserted in here. I’m staring at his clenched fist, and swallowing the lump in my throat, and trying not to let my snot leak out of my nose. Not in front of Baz. “Please,” I say. “Please just. You can…” 

He reaches for me again, almost as soon as I say he can.

I take his hand in mine and hold it tight. “You deserve better than this.” I can’t even look him in the eye when I say it, and my voice is barely there.

“ _Simon._ ” Baz squeezes my hand. “I don’t _want_ anyone else. I want _you._ ” 

“I’m a _disaster_ —”

“You’ve _always_ been a disaster, Snow.” He sighs. “Look. I know I’m not what you expected. If you don’t want me—”

“ _No._ ” I look at him, finally. His shoulders are hunching, and he looks like he’s about to cry. (He might already be crying.) It breaks my heart. “ _No_ , I didn’t mean. I've never. _Fuck_ , Baz, I've never wanted anyone like I want you, yeah?"

He’s quiet for a moment. He looks like he doesn’t believe me. “I didn’t know that,” he says. 

“What’s that you told me that one time? At your leavers ball?” I’m running my free hand through my hair. It’s so _long_ at the top now. “About things going _poetically unsaid._ ” 

Baz sighs again. “I don’t think we can _do_ that anymore, Simon. I should’ve…” 

“I was going to break up with you,” I tell him. “Before the trip. Before there _was_ a trip. I. I tried. And then Penny…” My lips are quivering, and I’m still crying. Fuck me…

Baz is quiet, but he’s still holding my hand. 

He nods. Takes a breath. I can see him sucking on his fangs. He drops his gaze, and stares at our hands, and eventually he says, “Is that what you want?” 

“ _No._ ” I can’t stop myself; it just tumbles out of me. _Because you’re afraid,_ I think. Then, _No, because you love him._ Then, _Sometimes when you love someone, you have to let them go…_

“ _No,_ ” I say it again, firmer this time. I’m holding tight to his hand, and he’s not pulling away, and…

_Fuck._

I’m breaking down in a fucking airport café, under some awful flourescent lighting that’s somehow also managing to be dim. I’m not sure I’m squinting from the light or from the crying. Baz’s hand is cold in mine, and getting warmer the longer I hold it, and I’m worried about how long it’s been since he’s fed. I hated seeing him starving and desperate in America—

I choke on a sob.

Baz's hand slips from mine.

He gets up, and for a second I think he’s going to leave me here to cry by myself. The thought makes my chest heave. But then he’s come ‘round the table, and he’s sliding in next to me, putting an arm around me.

“Is this okay?” he whispers. 

_Fucking hell, my boyfriend doesn’t think it’s okay to put an arm around me…_

I crumble against him, bunching my fist in the front of his shirt and nodding against his chest. _Please, please, please…_

_Please don’t leave me._

There’s this feeling building in my chest, threatening to wrench my ribs apart. A pull in my belly, almost like the Crucible’s magic. It _hurts,_ but it’s a sweet pain, and I’ve felt it so many times by now—

_Love._

“It’s alright, love,” Baz says against my hair. _Love._ “It’ll be alright…”

I don’t know that I believe him. I barely believed him that night in the Chapel…

He held me like this then, too, and all I could do was cry, and try to believe him.

  
  


**BAZ**

Simon’s shoulders are shaking as he tries to cry quietly. 

I wish we had more privacy, though maybe it’s better that we do this where other people can see. Maybe it’s easier, somehow, without the pressure of intimacy. (Not _intimacy._ The intimacy of being completely alone.) 

“It’s alright…” I whisper into his hair again. I can feel the pain rolling off of him. It’s seeping into me, welling up in my chest and throat. 

I tighten my arms around him and let my eyes fall closed as the tears start to fall. I wish I could make it all better for him. I wish I could make it go away…

Simon was going to break up with me. Of course he was.

I don’t think it hurts as much as I expected. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t actually _want_ to. Or maybe it’s because I’m hurting for _him_ instead. I don't have enough hurt _in_ me for all of this...

There’s a watery, choked intake of breath, then Simon murmurs, “Did you want him?”

I open my eyes. We’re still alone, thank snakes. “What?”

“ _Lamb_.” It’s a somber growl on his lips.

My stomach drops, and my heart shatters some more. (I didn’t think it _could_ shatter any more.) 

“Simon,” I whisper. “ _No._ Of course not—”

“I saw the way he looked at you—”

“What, like I was his plaything? A means to his end?”

“Like he _wanted_ you—”

“He almost got us _killed,_ Simon. All of us.”

“He would’ve protected you.” 

I pull back, and so does he. There are tear tracks running down his face, wet spots on his t-shirt where his sadness has fallen.

“I told you,” I say. I’m quiet, because I’m still ashamed. I nearly got us all killed by trusting that betrayer. _Lamb._ “He _used_ me. He used you. He used us all. _Simon_ —” My voice is shaking. I’m thinking of Simon, of how I saw him there, limp on the ground and bleeding…

He smelled like brown butter. His curls spread over the sand. His wing bent awkward and broken and _wrong…_

I thought I’d lost him.

He’d never heard how much I love him. He never knew.

He’s looking at me now with pain and fire behind his shining blue eyes. They’re red from crying, and I think he’s trying to jut his chin at me that infernal way he’s always done. 

This isn’t the way I wanted to tell him. The two of us a teary mess in an airport café, sleep deprived. Starving. _Thirsty_ . (In my case, at least.) On our way into another fucking catastrophe. On our way to try and save the fucking day. _Again._

This was never what I wanted, fighting. That was always Simon’s arena, and I don’t think it was really what _he_ wanted, either.

Damn the Mage. If they’d marked his bloody grave, I’d go there just to piss on it.

“I thought I’d lost you,” I finally say. My tears are spilling cold and wet down my face, and Simon’s reaching for me. _Reaching for me…_

His warm palm comes to rest against my jaw, his thumb stroking away the tears. “So did I.” His eyes fall shut, and he shakes his head. Sighs. Breathes. Strokes my face some more. He’s still crying when his eyes open again. He looks so tired, and it breaks my heart. “Baz…”

Fuck me…

I shake my head, too. “I told you I’m not changing my mind,” I say. “Remember?” 

Simon’s body sags, and the look he’s giving me…

“Yeah. Just—”

“Have you changed yours?” I sound a lot more confident than I am. I need my walls back up, before he ends this. 

His hand falls from my face to rest against my chest, his eyes closing tight as more tears fall hot against his cheeks. Simon, Simon. _My_ Simon…

Are you still mine?

Were you _ever_ mine?

He’s biting his bottom lip, but it’s still trembling. He opens his eyes and turns his head away from me. The look on his face is achingly familiar, like he’s a million miles away. 

I should’ve seen this coming. I should’ve seen this coming from the moment he told me he wanted to be with me.

But I was fool enough to hope. 

  
  


**SIMON**

“I was.” _Fuck._ I can’t look at him. Not _now._ “I was gonna break up with you. So you didn’t have to.”

“What?”

“Said I was—”

“I heard you.” _He heard me._ He heard me, and he’s hurting, and it’s _my fault._ But I don’t _belong_ with him. I don’t belong in his world, not anymore. He deserves _more_ —

“ _Simon._ Look at me. _Please_.” 

I do, and it _hurts_. He’s sat there looking at me, and it feels like he’s looking _into_ me.

I swallow, but it doesn’t get rid of the stone in my throat. “I just. I knew you wanted to. So I thought—”

“ _What_?” He’s looking at me like I’m a madman. (Probably I am.) “ _Simon._ I’ve _never_ wanted that. Ever.” 

“I just—”

_Please don’t leave me._

“I don’t _get it._ ”

“Get _what,_ Snow?” He sounds pissed off—he _looks_ pissed off—and it makes me brave. It’s familiar ground.

I’m pulling at my hair, and it feels like I might go off. I want to scream at him. I want to knock him over and kiss him into the ground and forget we were ever here. I want to yell at him until my throat hurts. Why, why, _why?_ But I can’t, not now. Not at the fucking _airport._

So I spit the words under my breath instead. “Why would you want to be with _me_?” 

He’s looking at me like I’m an idiot. Like the answer is obvious. “Are you really this daft?” He huffs, and presses his fingers into his brow bone, and drops his hands. “ _Simon._ I _love_ you.” 

  
  


**BAZ**

Simon looks like he’s about to go off, but he can’t. Not here. Not _now._ Not anymore.

“What?” he says.

I can’t fucking believe this. “ _I_ _love you,_ ” I say again, and it feels _good._ I’m irritated with him, but what else is new. It still feels good to _say it_. I’ve been holding it close for far too long. “ _That’s_ why I want to be with you.” I shake my head. “I should’ve told you months ago. I should’ve told you _years_ ago.”

“Baz…”

“It’s alright. If you still want to end it. I’ve said what I need to.” It’s not alright, if he wants to end it. But I’ve lost people before. I’ve survived it. 

I can survive again.

Simon’s shaking his head. “No.” 

“No, _what._ ”

“I don’t. I don’t want to end it.” He presses his lips together and tilts his head back, slouching in the booth, and stares at the ceiling. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows, and I want to lean into him and kiss him there. “ _Fuck._ ” 

Well. That’s certainly one way to put it.

I slouch back and stare, too, resting my hands on my thighs. 

Simon’s curls are rustling against the back of the booth as he shakes his head. “I ruined it. I ruined _everything_ —”

“No. _No,_ Simon—”

“I don’t know what’s _wrong_ with me.” 

“So many things.” I regret saying so, for a moment—now probably isn’t the time for sarcasm—but then Simon snorts wetly at the ceiling, and sets his hand on top of mine, and I think maybe we _can_ joke about this. About the disasters we’ve become. 

About the disasters we’ve always been. 

  
  


**SIMON**

_Love._

Baz says he loves me.

_I love him so much, and I want to tell him so…_

I don’t know how. I’ve _thought_ it for months, now. I’ve felt it, and felt it, and _felt_ it. But I’ve not been able to tell him. I’ve never really _tried._

It’s just three words. I think about Agatha, and how saying them was easy with her. I’m just now realizing that maybe it was easy because I didn’t _mean_ them. Not in the way I mean them with Baz, anyway. 

My hand’s resting on his, on top of his thigh. I thread our fingers together and turn my head against the back of the booth to look at him. He turns his head, too. It’s uncomfortable, looking at him like this, but I don’t lower my eyes. I _can’t._ Not now. 

One of Baz’s eyebrows quirks. “What are you thinking, Snow? It looks like it hurts.” 

_I love you._

It _does_ hurt, like my chest has been ripped apart and put back together again. 

I huff a laugh. “Fuck you.” Then I take a deep breath, and squeeze his hand. My tears are dry on my cheeks, but I think there's more about to come. My wings are starting to _itch,_ like they’re about to sprout from my back. I’m going to need Penny’s magic again, and soon. 

Baz is watching me, and he’s beautiful. I love him so much, and I can’t let him go. There’d always be a Baz-shaped hole left behind in my heart…

 _Light a match inside your heart._ That’s what his mum used to say to him, he told me so. 

_Come on,_ I think at myself. _Come on, come on, come_ on. 

Baz is watching me, and the stupid flourescent lights in this place are shining in his eyes. They’re so _lovely,_ his eyes…

"I love you." I say it before I have the chance to change my mind. I say it, and I squeeze his hand, and then I say it again. “I love you so fucking much.” 

Baz looks like he might cry again. (I’m already crying again.) 

"I love you too, Simon," he says, and I roll into him. I rest my cheek against his chest and let him put his arms around me. It feels like a dam has broken inside me. It feels…

_Clean._

I close my eyes and breathe him in. Cedar. Bergamot. _Himself._

_Mine._

Then there it is. The faintest _thump thump thump_ inside Baz’s chest.

It sounds like the loudest thing in the world just now. 

I lift my head and pull back to look at him. “ _Baz._ ” His face is stained with tear streaks, but he’s still lovely. I push a lock of hair behind his ear. “I can hear your heart beating.” I don’t know why it makes me tear up some more. I don’t know why it makes me _ache._

_I’d tie our hearts together, chamber by chamber._

I’m smiling through my tears, and he’s smiling back. 

_I love him so much, and he loves me…_

He loves me, and I think I’m starting to believe it.

I take his face in my hands and crash into him. We haven’t kissed since that night, in the back of Shep’s truck... 

His lips are cold against mine, but I know how to warm them.

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

Baz’s hands are at my back, over my shirt. (I wish they were under it.) His mouth is opening under mine, and he’s melting against me, sighing…

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

I cradle the back of his head in one of my palms and press him closer to me, slide my tongue against his—

That’s when I feel it. A rippling through my veins, a flint igniting a spark, fire catching—

 _Merlin,_ it almost feels like…

_Magic._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _healing is a journey, not a destination._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, chapter 2!!! I’m so glad to be able to post this as part of the Carry On Big Bang 💛💙
> 
> Thank you SO much to my partner [@snowandbasiltea](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/snowandbasiltea) for the [wonderful art](https://snowandbasiltea.tumblr.com/post/627803389320904704/show-chapter-archive) for this chapter. And extra thanks to you for being so patient with me 💜💜💜
> 
> Huge & never-ending thanks to [@pipsqueakparker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafbaeyette) [@ninemagicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks) & [@scone-lover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover/pseuds/sconelover) for beta-reading this chapter for me! It’s been a hard few months for me & writing hasn’t come easy. Y’all’s kind words were so incredibly helpful. Thank you 💜💜💜
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!!!

_**five months later...** _

**BAZ**

Simon Snow is flying.

Simon Snow is always flying these days, a dash of scarlet on the horizon, a silhouette against the sun.

Simon Snow is _still_ the sun. Still the centre of my universe.

Still magic.

I wait for him on the veranda, where I’ve at least some semblance of shelter from the cold. I wait, scrolling through my phone, reading a book, trying to get comfortable with the feel of a dead spot that’s not quite so dead anymore.

Hampshire has become something like me. Not dead. Not _alive._ Something in between, perhaps, something burgeoning. Something with magic prickling at its edges. Something with the potential of a match about to strike.

No, not a dead spot.

But to sit in it—to be here, letting it prickle at _my_ edges—is far from comfortable.

They say the more powerful the mage, the more unbearable it is to exist in a place that’s drained of magic…

It’s not anymore. Not a dead spot. But it’s not _enough_ , not for my family to return. Not for me to cast properly. Not _yet._

It's enough for Simon Snow to fly. (He's always defied the laws of magic, anyway.)

I tried to spell him invisible, the first time we came here. Just to try. Just to test. His freckles disappeared, and his moles faded, but that was all. A rather disturbing sight, really. But then he laughed his arse off when he saw the look of horror on my face. I remember feeling like I’d conquered the world, making him smile and laugh like that. It was still a rarity then, seeing him happy.

It’s not such a rarity now. Thank Crowley. Thank Merlin, Morgana, and Methuselah. Thank Carroll and Seuss and all the poets. Thank Nicks and Slick, to take one out of Bunce’s book.

It’s no longer a rarity to see Simon Snow smile, to hear him laugh. He still has his days, still has his moments. But I think I’m almost ready to say that we’ve made it through the worst of it. Stumbled through, really, clutching each other in the dark. Grasping for sanity. Just trying to hold on.

I can hear him _whooping_ at the sky. Or in it, rather.

I watch for him on the horizon. I wait for him to come back to me.

**SIMON**

My therapist says that healing is a journey, not a destination.

Used to drive me mental whenever she’d say that. Back before I ghosted her, I mean.

I didn’t _want_ to go on any _journeys_ back then. I was all journeyed and quested out, I think.

No, not really. The truth of it is that _this_ sort of journey—the sort that goes on in your head, the sort you don’t even have to leave home for—is so much harder than tracking a fucking pack of New Age-y vampires across America, or solving the mystery of your nemesis’ mum’s murder, or…

Or going whichever direction your mentor points you in, sword drawn and swinging.

I didn’t have to _think_ for any of that. Not about this sort of stuff, anyway. I just pushed all the bad stuff down until it got too much and exploded out of me one day.

Now it's like I can’t _go off_ anymore, so I have to bloody _feel_ everything instead.

I suppose that’s just a new sort of going off.

Anyway. I didn’t know how to fight my own bloody demons. I didn’t know how to fight something I couldn’t _see._

Learning how...that’s all part of the _journey,_ I suppose.

She wasn’t surprised to hear from me again, I don’t think. My therapist, I mean. After America. After the shitshow at Watford. After _everything._

“ _Everyone heals in their own time, Simon. And sometimes we have to learn that for ourselves.”_

It was like she’d been waiting for me.

Probably she was.

At first I couldn’t tell if I was more or less fucked up than the last time I’d talked to her. About the same, maybe. Fucked up in new and exciting ways…

I still had my boyfriend. _Somehow._ And Penny, of course. Agatha. Shepard. I had a grandmother— _me_!—and an uncle. _Family._ A new last name. (Or an old one, I guess.) I had _love._ I _have_ love. The greatest magic there is.

I had _magic._

It felt like too much at first. Sometimes still does. My therapist says it’s because I suddenly had all this good stuff, which meant I had a lot of good to lose. Like my brain didn’t want me to _believe_ in everything I had, because it would hurt too much when it was taken away...

I always thought _Baz_ was the one who’d built walls against the world, but my therapist says I’ve been building them all my life.

I’ve been trying to pull them down. But sometimes I have to focus on one brick at a time.

Healing’s a journey, not a destination…

Sometimes when I think about that it reminds me of the Mage. The way he used to tell me, _“That’s not your path, Simon_.” As if he ever gave a damn about _me._

I don’t think this is the path he was thinking of when he abandoned me. When he wrote my name— _part_ of my name—on my arm and left me at the children’s home. The wanker. Dad of the fucking century.

I used to fantasise about my parents coming back for me. Telling me they made a mistake. I’d pretend my dad was a footballer, not a crazed, corrupt quack who looked like fucking Robin Hood. My dad was more involved in my life than I ever realised—I mean, how _could_ I?—but he still managed to be so distant. So _cold._

Still managed to fuck my life more than any famous footballer who wasn’t ready for a kid ever could.

The only way to make him stop hurting me was for him to die. He hurt me all my life.

He still does.

Sometimes when I think about him—about _any_ of this—I’m just angry. And sometimes I’m just sad. A lot of the time, I’m _everything_. Like I can’t pick just one emotion. My therapist says I _need_ to feel things, to heal from old wounds. The sort that aren’t made by swords.

Flying’s good. Sometimes when I’m feeling everything, and it’s too much, I fly. Ditto when I’m feeling nothing at all. Empty. _Numb._ (Apparently all of this emotional bullshit is normal. Not _Normal,_ but normal for people like me.

It’s a journey, not a destination...

Sometimes the journey’s bollocks, to be honest, but a lot of the time it’s not. Sometimes I even think that things really are going to be okay. That _I’ll_ be okay.

Sometimes I even _feel_ okay, and better than. Like when I’m up here with the clouds, my hair blown back, my wings beating behind me. When I’m up here, breathing clean, cold air, the wind rushing in my ears...it’s like everything else falls away.

And then there’s Baz.

If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that I'm glad I didn't go through with that Maya Angelou bollocks. I would've lost him. Though honestly, the more time goes by, the more I think that maybe...maybe he wouldn't have _let_ me lose him.

Besides. Sometimes I think about it, that quote— _when someone shows you who they are, believe them_ —and I think about that night in the Chapel. With the Humdrum. And the Mage.

And Ebb.

I think about Baz holding onto me. Calling me a _courageous fuck._

And then later, at his leavers ball, telling me I was _brave and selfless and clever._ That that's who I _am._ And I wonder if I read that fucking quote all wrong.

Or maybe I just _saw_ it wrong. _Heard_ it wrong. I dunno. My therapist says our minds twist things up when we're depressed, and sometimes I can see that now. Truly.

Also, part of my therapy is taking Baz at his word. And his actions, too. To believe him. That I _did_ show him who I was, and he _did_ believe me, and that he liked what he saw there inside of me.

It still feels weird when people call me those things— _nice_ things. (I'm supposed to learn how to value myself enough to take a compliment. Or something.) (Baz has no trouble reminding me. Though he does still mix his compliments in with insults from time to time.) (He says it’s familiar ground. I think it’s flirting. Maybe we’re both a bit right.)

I've just always done what I thought was _right_. Helping people.

Anyway. I’m glad I held on to him. (Glad he held on to _me._ ) I think I would’ve regretted it if I hadn’t. And even though I kept telling myself that I could handle pain...I never really _wanted_ to. I never wanted to give him up.

Things are good with us, I think. Not perfect, and we’ve got stuff to work through. But we can work through it _together._

Our own journey.

I’m dipping down out of the sky while I think about what Baz would say if I told him that. That we’re on a bloody _healing journey_ together.

Part of me thinks he’d scoff at me, raise an eyebrow and say something cleverly sarcastic that way he does. But I also know that Baz is a poetic fuck himself. Probably he’d like it. Secretly. While taking the mickey.

I guess that sums us up pretty well since age eleven, doesn’t it? I mean, with a little more spite and a chimera thrown in.

I’m grinning as the beating of my wings slows and I float to a landing. There’re little bits of ice clinging to my hair, and they spray out as I shake my head.

I roll my shoulders and crack my neck. Then I call my wings and tail back into my body. They reel in, sort of like a hose. Which isn't nearly as cool as _having_ wings and a tail, but at least I don't have to have them _all the time._

I have no idea where they go. (I guess Baz and I both have body parts that grow when we need them.) (Well. Besides the obvious bits.) (It’s just like he said, right here in this forest, two whole years ago now: _we match._ )

He’s there, waiting for me on the veranda. Baz. Looking so cool. (And fit.) (Of course.)

He starts to stand when he sees me heading his way.

I’ve told him he can wait inside while I fly. It’s the middle of December, and he gets cold so easily, but he always waits for me out here anyway. At most, he’ll go inside to light a fire for us for after, or to have a piss. Sometimes he’ll hunt in the wood, and I’ll follow him as he stalks through the trees. (I never watch while he drinks. I know he doesn’t like it.)

He’ll need to hunt soon. He’s barely got any colour to him just now.

“You didn’t hunt,” I say as I climb the short set of steps. (I kiss him here when I have the chance, but only when he’s a step below me. Give him a taste of his own medicine and all that.)

“Not yet,” he says. Then, “I thought maybe you’d like to walk with me.”

He’s getting better at this, at asking for things he wants. (Baz sees my therapist now, too. Not as much as I do, and Merlin knows he didn’t want to at first. But when I told him it could be good for _us_...there was no more hesitation. I love him for that.)

His hands are shoved into the pockets of his peacoat, and he’s not looking at me, but he’s asking. And he’s lovely. And I’d like to warm his lips up for him.

I step up beside him and nudge his elbow with mine. “Yeah,” I say.

**BAZ**

Simon takes my hand in his and buries them both in the pocket of his bomber jacket.

We walk in silence with only each other and the mist of our breath for company, and he doesn’t let go of my hand until I pull away to hunt.

I’m starting to get nervous. I’m trying _not_ to be, not yet, lest my prey senses it rolling off me and runs away.

But I can’t help it as much as I’d like.

We’ve established an unspoken routine of sorts these last weeks, Simon and I, especially since uni let out for the holiday. We come here for him to fly, yes. But that’s not all.

I’m barely focused as I take the deer, but I still manage to lull her into a false sense of security.

I try to take a leaf out of Simon’s book and _not think_ while I drink, but I’ve never been good at not thinking.

So I drink deep, and think about Simon.

Simon Snow.

Simon _Salisbury,_ rather. (I don’t think I’ll ever be used to _that._ )

I think of him on top of me, kissing me like it’s the end of the world. And I think about him slowing down, about his tongue warm in my mouth, about his hips against mine and his hands in my hair…

I need to _stop_ thinking about it, otherwise all of this new blood will only rush south.

It’s not long before I’ve drained the deer. Before I’ve come back to Simon where he’s been waiting for me, and he’s taken my hand again, and we’re walking back towards the house.

“One of these days,” he says, “you’ll let me lift you after you’ve fed.”

I roll my eyes even though he’s not looking at me. “You’ve some strange wishes, Snow,” I tell him. “And I’m not like to fulfill them.”

Of course it’s a lie. I think he knows that by now.

I think he knows that I’d give him anything.

* * *

We end up ordering delivery for dinner after a bit of nervous banter.

“ _Are you hungry, Snow_?” I’d said, partially because I knew he would be, and partially because I wanted to gauge where we stand today. (He could’ve opted to get something on the way back to London instead, and my nerves about tonight would’ve been put to rest alongside some amount of disappointment.)

“ _I could eat_ ,” he said.

I pushed my luck. “ _We could order in._ ”

And Simon smiled at me, a cheeky grin that betrayed the fact that he was about to be a shit. And also made me want to kiss him, only a bit begrudgingly. “ _There’s no way they’ll find your house,_ ” he said.

I had to roll my eyes at that, even as my heart warmed with the memory of him stood in my foyer two years ago, looking an absolute disaster. “ _A delivery person is likely more resourceful than you, Snow_ ,” I told him, and then I held up my mobile for effect. “ _Also, Google Maps exists._ ”

He didn’t have a retort for me.

We were stood in the kitchen—bereft of Daphne’s cooking gadgets and everything else that had made this room feel _lived in,_ before _—_ me staring at his boots as he scuffed them nervously against the floor. Also I was wondering at how bloody _presumptuous_ I was. ( _Was_ I being presumptuous?) Sometimes I still think about that night—Crowley, how long’s it been, now?—since he exploded on me. Went _off_ on me. Yelled that I was pushing him…

I’m afraid of that, still. Afraid of pushing him so far, he’s pushed _away._ But Simon’s therapist— _my_ therapist too, now—has encouraged me to ask for what I want. What I need. It isn’t pushing to ask. And Simon’s feelings aren’t my responsibility…

That’s the hardest part of this whole debacle. Letting him feel what he feels without putting all the blame on myself.

I’ve been blaming myself for things for far too long.

Or so I’m told.

**SIMON**

My heart’s bloody well hammering while Baz meets the delivery person at the door. (It’s a fucking miracle the damn thing doesn’t break a rib.)

I agreed to this—ordering in, I mean—because if we hadn’t, we would’ve just picked something up on the way home. And if we’d done _that,_ there’d’ve been no point in coming all the way back here, would there? And, well…

We have some privacy here, yeah? And I’d sort of like to take advantage of it. (I think.) (Sometimes it’s hard to know for sure.) (Sometimes I barely know at all.)

I swear my stomach flips over itself when I hear Baz close the door.

And then he’s back, just like that, bag full of curry in hand.

Right.

“Um,” I start. _Fuck._

_C’mon,_ I think, but he’s just watching me struggle with my words.

He always lets me lead when it comes to this stuff. Sometimes I wish he wouldn’t. (A _lot_ of the time I wish he wouldn’t.) Might be less risky if he started things, I dunno.

But I’m the one who pushed him away before. Back before America. Back when I wasn’t going to therapy anymore. When every time he touched me I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

So I guess it makes sense for him to wait for me, all things considered.

I don’t _always_ ask. But it’s easier here, somehow. Easier than it is in London. Maybe because here’s where it all started, at least partly. Being with him here those first few nights...it was like nothing else mattered. Only us.

Anyway. I don’t always ask. Sometimes after I fly, and Baz does his hunting, we just go home. Back to mine and Penny’s (or back to his if Fiona’s not in). Watch a film. Sometimes he’ll even stay the night with me, but that’s all. All we do is sleep. (Most of the time I wake up frustrated, even tingling at my edges, and I’ve wondered if he feels the same.) (Frustrated, I mean. Probably he’s not tingling. At least not the way I do.) He’s never complained.

I just. I want to give him _more_ than that.

So I’m starting to ask, more often than not. Even though it’s awkward and weird and makes me feel like he’s looking right into my fucking soul.

He’s still just looking at me. “Curry’ll go cold, Snow—”

"D'you. I mean.” _Fucking hell._ Sure, Baz is getting better at asking for what he wants, and I am, too. But I’m still absolute shit with words. “Should we go to your room? D'you want…?"

That eyebrow of his lifts as he levels me with a look. (The look makes me want to take him upstairs more than I already did, to be honest.) "Are you asking whether I'd like to tumble around and kiss and pretend to be happy boyfriends?" he asks, as if he doesn’t know that’s exactly what I mean.

I roll my eyes, but also I snort at him. And blush a bit. A lot. And rake my fingers through my hair. (I can still feel the wind in it.) (I want _his_ fingers in it…) "Yeah. _Yes._ That. I mean. Well." I'm glad— _so_ glad—that he feels like he can joke with me again. That he doesn't think I'll break. But there's that one word…

"Um." I'm looking everywhere but at him. And then I force my hand out of my hair and reach for him. His fingers are frozen when I close mine around them. "'Cept. Well. Don't have to _pretend_ , do we?" I nod toward the bag in his other hand. "Also you left off the bit where we eat first."

Baz's face _burns._ (As much as it can, anyway, which is a decent amount considering he just drained a deer not even an hour ago.) It's one of the prettiest things I've ever seen.

" _Also,_ " I say as I tug him towards the staircase. "You're a mage, y'know. Doesn't matter if the curry's gone cold."

Nothing a little **You’re getting warmer** can’t handle. Hell, I might even be able to manage that one by now.

**BAZ**

I don’t know why I let him pick curry.

It’s not like Simon to have the foresight to factor in bad breath when it comes to his dietary choices, even if he intends to snog me stupid afterwards. (Although I’m not entirely sure he has much foresight when it comes to snogging me stupid, either. Simon’s always been a spur-of-the-moment type.)

I’m reminded of that first time, eating leftover shepherd’s pie together on my floor—the wretch drank _milk_ with it, for fuck’s sake—and then the way he was so sure of himself, afterwards. The way he grabbed me by the back of my neck and pulled me to him. The way we spent the night in front of my fireplace, exhaling years of bottled up sexual tension, pushing and pulling at each other until we were both too tired to move.

The way I thought I was living in a dream, the way I was _giddy_ with it.

There’s a fire in the grate now, the only sign of life in this old house besides the two of us (besides _Simon,_ largely). Even the wraiths have gone, searching for magic after ours was drained away, perhaps, or simply blinked out of existence the night the forest burned. It makes me wonder if they’ll return someday, when Hampshire reignites. It’d almost feel wrong to call this place home without them.

It’s _not_ home, anyway. At least not always.

Home is wherever _Simon_ is.

Absolute cliché, but here we are.

I’m nearly done with my dinner. Snow’s been finished for a while now, but of course he has. He’s a human hoover. (I still get disappointed in myself for not finding it more disgusting.)

“You’re getting good at that,” he says.

Of course he’d start talking while I’ve got my mouth full of vindaloo. “Hm?”

“Keeping your fangs... _in._ Or. Y’know. Wherever they are.”

We don’t talk about Lamb. We talk about _other_ things, now, and we’re getting better at communicating. But we don’t talk about him.

There was a while—after—where I didn’t even want to utilise what he’d shown me. What he’d _taught_ me. All because it was him who did it. But I knew that’d be foolish, and a waste, and a recipe for a shredded mouth. Even Simon said, “ _It’d be like me not using my sword just because the Mage taught me how to use it._ ” (We don’t really talk about the Mage, either.) (May he rest in pain.) So I started practising on my own.

Simon’s right. I _am_ getting good at it. Keeping them back takes barely any effort at all, now.

He shrugs. (Even though we _do_ talk now, half of Snow’s sentences are still shrugs.) “Y’don’t have to, y’know. Not with me. I mean. If you don’t. If it’s easier—”

My heart swells in my chest, as much as an undead heart can. “It’s better for me, this way,” I say. “With my fangs…” I look into my near-empty takeaway container, then somewhere over Simon’s shoulder. (It’s odd, sometimes, not seeing scarlet there.) “Eating hurts sometimes, if I let my fangs pop. Cuts up my mouth—”

“Oh yeah,” he says, and gives a sheepish smile. He’s scratching mercilessly at the back of his head, but the hair’s too short there for him to hassle his curls. “Yeah, sorry. You’ve said that before—”

“It’s alright, Simon.” _And,_ I think, _you’re lovely for saying so._ (We may talk now, but some things are still too hard to say. Simon might poke fun at me for leaving them _poetically unsaid,_ and there was a time—months ago, now—when I said we couldn’t do that anymore...but it’s work sometimes. It’s work to say what you mean when you mean it so fiercely.) Fuck it all, I _should_ tell him so…

I remember yelling at him over the wind in America. “ _You’re so beautiful!_ ” Because I meant it. Because he couldn’t _hear._

My heart beats against my rib cage as fast as it’ll go, the deer's blood rushing up to paint my cheeks. “You’re lovely,” I start. “For that. For…” _For allowing me to be a monster in your presence?_ No, I’m supposed to be _working_ on that line of thinking…

Fuck.

Crowley.

_Fuck._

I take a deep breath in, then out, and try not to think about the fact that Snow is staring at me.

“...for saying that,” I finish, moronically.

He lets out a huff of air and picks at the side seam of his jeans. “‘S’just the truth, s’all.” His eyes dart around nervously before landing on my takeaway container. “You done with that?” A human hoover, like I said. Some things never change.

I roll my eyes at him. “Crowley, Snow,” I say. “ _Yes,_ if you’d like—”

“It’s just.” He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and sucks at it, and I feel like I might combust. (We’ve still some amount of sexual tension to resolve.) “Can I…?”

“You can finish it, Snow—”

“ _No,_ I meant.” His face is burning. The scent of his blood fills my nostrils and warms me from the inside, somehow, like melting butter…

Oh.

_Oh._

If I weren’t already blushing, I would be now.

I set my forgotten takeaway to the side and push it out of our way. Then I look at Simon, with his lovely curls—longer even than they were in Vegas—and his face looking like the night sky on fire, a constellation of freckles scattered over a burnt blush. The flames in the grate are dancing in his eyes...

“You know you don’t have to ask,” I tell him. Because he doesn't. Because I'd give him anything. _Everything._

Simon smiles, and it's like the sun in this dim room. It's a wonder it doesn't cast shadows...

And then he’s crawling over to me.

**SIMON**

I felt my magic crackle to life in an airport café in the middle of the night five months ago, while I kissed Baz like I had everything to lose.

I _did_ have everything to lose. But I was pulling it back to me—pulling _him_ back to me, tying us back together while I still could.

It wasn’t magic like I’d had before, but it was _something._ And when disaster struck at Watford, and I called the Sword of Mages to me out of old, desperate habit...it came.

I didn’t have time to be shocked. And looking back, I don’t think I _was,_ honestly. Not after the spark I felt at the airport. Not when I thought about what the water spirit in Nevada had said…

_You put it back, and more._

After Watford...after all the dust settled...it almost felt like I’d lost it again. Not all the way, but still. Like I was so tired and sad that I could barely feel the hum beneath my skin, let alone use it.

Therapy’s been a help. _Baz_ has been a help.

When Baz and I are like _this,_ the way we are now...safe in his room in Hampshire, holding each other and kissing and moaning in the dark—or in the light of the fire, I guess—sometimes I can feel it crackling beneath my skin again, itching at me. Magic I can’t quite hold on to, but one that licks at my edges. One that threatens to come back.

I mean, threatening might not be the proper word. But it _feels_ like that, sometimes. Especially when I start thinking.

Like now, while I’m moving my lips along Baz’s neck and his breath’s shaking in my ear. And the way he whimpers when I thread our fingers together and press his hand into the floor above his head. The way I can feel him hard in his trousers, and he can probably feel me hard in mine, and it’s _scary,_ but not the sort of scary it used to be, not quite.

The way his free hand’s moving up the back of my shirt, and I’m wondering if tonight’s the night he’ll actually take it off me. (He won’t, I don’t think. Not unless I ask.)

Anyway. Sometimes when we're like this I'm afraid my magic'll come back to me all at once. That I'll go off and incinerate him. Which is a cockblock if ever there was one (sometimes I _miss_ not having to think about stuff).

The only bigger cockblock is Penny, probably. (Even when she’s just minding her business in the next room, it feels—I dunno—weird _._ Because she’d still _know_ we’re in _my_ room. And it’s not like she’s stupid.)

No, scratch that. The biggest cockblock is definitely me. I’m the one who’s always fucked it up. Like the last time we got this close—the last time before America, I mean—and I freaked and told him he was pushing me.

It was me who was doing the pushing, really. Pushing him _away._

Anyway. I’m not doing that anymore. Or I’m trying not to. I’m trying to pull him close instead, but it’s fucking terrifying most of the time. Until I actually get out of my head and let myself feel what’s underneath all the fear and the walls and all that tosh.

It’s love, innit? And it feels so big sometimes that I think it’s like to swallow me.

Sometimes I think I want it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this wasn't where I originally intended to end this chapter, BUT once I got there it felt like a good organic stopping point before exploring this further. I'll be frank: the last few months have not been great for me mentally, as I'm sure is true for many of us. Unfortunately that makes it very, very difficult for me to write. I think things are starting to look up (knock on wood) but I have absolutely no idea when I'll work on this fic as I really need to work on Between the Lines & get a new chapter up on that. I definitely do want to finish this story, PREFERABLY before AWTWB comes out, lol. I just need to get my writing mojo back. Hopefully it won't be another 8 months before chapter 3 💜💜💜
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed this installment, at least! Please let me know what you thought, if you're so inclined 💜

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all. So, my original plan for this fic was to have it written in its entirety by the time I posted this first chapter, which...did not happen lmao. I've got some logistical stuff to work out, & then the actual writing. I do know there will be a time jump after this chapter, so we won't be covering what goes down at Watford on-screen. This is more just about love & vulnerability & Simon going back to therapy, lol. 
> 
> I'm not sure when the next update on this will be, so please go ahead & subscribe if you'd like to be notified! In the meantime, I have some Carry On-era first time fics if you're looking for something _right now_ : [A Pair of Splendid Morons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17786282/chapters/41964572) & [Don't Leave Without Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20730134/chapters/49250528)
> 
>  **UPDATE ON POSTING:** I can now let y’all know that I’ll be updating the fic as one of my projects for the [Carry On Big Bang!](%E2%80%9C) Posting is in July 2020. 
> 
> Thanks for reading as always!
> 
> Since this will be a multi-chapter fic, I sure as heck have [a playlist](https://music.amazon.com/user-playlists/430aa2777300493c96dfd056d9361194sune?ref=dm_sh_5c44-d0b6-dmcp-eb1c-2e3da&musicTerritory=US&marketplaceId=ATVPDKIKX0DER) for it! (Currently short, but it'll grow.)
> 
> Come say hi to me on [Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thehoneyedhufflepuff) I'm a disaster over there. (I also like to post fic previews on there, so I'm sure a preview or two of this one will pop up.)


End file.
